


into the woods

by galaxylane



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, But mostly fluff, Clarke is a witch and Bellamy is smitten, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, well historical vibes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:22:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22294000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galaxylane/pseuds/galaxylane
Summary: Since he relocated to Arkadia a month ago, the townspeople have taken it upon themselves to ensure that he knows three things: the governor is a pious man secretly having an affair with a barmaid, Wednesdays are the best day to buy bread from the baker, and there’s a witch living in the woods.(Or, Bellamy seeks help from the witch and the woods and she's not at all what he's expecting)
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 16
Kudos: 205





	into the woods

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't posted a fic in forever, and this was originally a drabble that just took on a life of it's own.

Since he relocated to Arkadia a month ago, the townspeople have taken it upon themselves to ensure that he knows three things: the governor is a pious man secretly having an affair with a barmaid, Wednesdays are the best day to buy bread from the baker, and there’s a witch living in the woods.

The third fact sounds more like a fairytale designed to scare children into behaving, but more than one person has told him so in furtive, hushed tones, and Bellamy can’t tell if they’re simply pulling the wool over his eyes because he’s new or they really do believe it. They’ve only just settled into the town when his sister Octavia cuts her hand deeply while trying to chop wood. The son of a seamstress, he tries sewing it up the best he can, apologizing profusely every time his sister winces or hisses at him in pain. The bleeding stops, but within a day or two Octavia’s cut becomes red and puffy, the girl herself turning pale and feverish.

“I’m fine, Bell,” she tries reassuring him. “You worry too much.”

“One of us has to,” he tells her. Any bite his words would have had are lost as he observes the sheen of sweat on her forehead. He knows if he takes her to the town’s physician, he’ll be expected to pay in coin they do not have. He starts asking around, hoping someone may know of a solution. Eventually, one of his neighbors leans over in the tavern and suggests he goes to see the witch.

Bellamy glares at the other man - Jasper, he thinks his name is - and snaps, “My sister needs real help, not fairytales.”

“She’s not a fairytale,” Jasper’s companion supplies. Bellamy doesn’t know his name, but he thinks he’s seen him selling herbs and flowers at the town market before. “There really is someone living in a cottage in the woods. We’ve never seen her, but you can see the smoke from her chimney rising over the woods sometimes. Maybe it’s worth a try?”

It seems like a fool’s errand, but he can’t afford to pay a doctor for his sister’s care and he’s getting desperate watching her grow sicker. So the following day, he finds himself walking the winding path to her cottage with Octavia in tow. Octavia pulls her shawl tighter around her, throwing him a wary look out of the corner of her eye.

“I can’t believe you’re taking me to a witch.”

“We don’t have any other options, O,” he reminds her.

“Yeah but what if she wants something in return? Like your blood or something,” she says lowly, her gaze steady on the cottage.

“She won’t,” he assures her.

He hopes not, anyway. He’d do it for his sister, but he would rather his blood stay in his own body, thank you very much.

When they reach the door, he pushes his anxiety down and gives Octavia what he hopes is a reassuring smile before knocking. When the door swings open, he’s more than a little surprised. He’d been picturing an old woman with wild hair - a grandmotherly type, perhaps, or a hag - but is confronted with a beautiful young woman instead, her golden hair in a neat braid over her shoulder. Her pink lips form a little ‘o’ of surprise at the sight of them before stretching into a welcoming smile instead.

“I see you are in need of some help,” she says in place of a greeting, her eyes falling to Octavia and her bandaged hand. Her voice has a husky quality he wouldn’t have guessed, but he finds he rather likes it. He nods in acknowledgement, still taken aback by the sight of her. She may not be at all what he was expecting, but her deep blue eyes are warm as she invites them inside.

She brings Octavia to sit in a chair while Bellamy eyes the strange plants and unidentifiable objects stored in jars around the room. One looks like a flower, but its petals are a dark, vibrant shade of blue he’s ever seen before. He reaches out to touch the jar but jumps when he hears her speak.

“I wouldn’t touch that one, if I were you.”

His dark eyes meet hers and he can see she isn’t admonishing him, rather she looks a little amused. His fingers curl back away from the jar and he nods towards his sister. “Can you help her?”

The witch bends over his sister, examining her hand. “Hm. Who stitched this up?”

“I did,” he admits, watching her examination anxiously. He can’t help but verbalize the fear that’s been gnawing at him since Octavia first got sick. “Did I make this worse?”

“No,” she shakes her head, sending a small smile his way. “I was going to say you didn’t do too bad of a job, actually. Unfortunately, it’s gotten infected.”

His heart sinks and he can see the panic on his sister’s face. “Does that mean she needs bloodletting?”

She snorts. “Lord, no. She’ll need a salve, certainly, and perhaps something to fight the fever.”

Octavia shifts and asks a little apprehensively, “Will it hurt?”

He’s surprised when the witch’s expression softens. “No, it won’t hurt. Applying it may make your hand feel tingly for a bit, but that’s all.”

She leaves them for a moment to fetch the salve and returns, dragging a chair to sit across from Octavia. “You never told me your name,” the witch says lightly as she begins her work. Bellamy has the distinct feeling she’s trying to keep his sister distracted.

“I’m Octavia, and that’s my brother Bellamy.”

“Nice to meet you both,” she murmurs, reaching for a clean piece of cloth to wrap the wound. “I’m Clarke.”

Clarke. A strange name for a strange girl.

His sister seems to have overcome her earlier trepidation and asks, “Do you live here by yourself?”

“I do now,” Clarke tells her, never taking her eyes off her task. “I used to live with my mother, but she’s gone now. She’s the one who taught me how to help people.”

“Our mother is dead too,” Octavia tells her matter-of-factly. “That’s why we came here, to Arkadia.”

“Orphans too then,” Clarke nods. Bellamy frowns at that. Witch or not, it seems a shame that she’s all alone out here. He and Octavia may not have any family left, but at least they have each other. She straightens from where she was bent over Octavia’s hand and he can see it’s neatly bandaged, much better than he’d been able to do. “Your brother has been taking care of you though, it seems.”

“He does,” Octavia nods, and seemingly can’t help but add, "when he's not being an overbearing mother hen."

Bellamy sighs at that, only just refraining from pointing out that he wouldn't have to be _overbearing_ if she had some semblance of self-preservation. Octavia's headstrong and adventurous ways were going to send him into an early grave.

Clarke turns to look at him now, a faint smile playing at the corners of her mouth at the sight of his exasperation. She crosses the room to her cabinet and pulls a small vial filled with blue liquid, tossing it to him. “This is for the fever. She just needs to take it once. You’ll need to apply the salve and change the bandages regularly until it heals.” She turns her attention to Octavia. “You’ll need some rest and lots of water but it should clear up in a few days. If you’d like to come back in a few days, I can take a look at it again to be sure.”

“That’s...it?” he asks haltingly.

She definitely looks amused now. “Is this not enough?”

“I suppose I was just expecting...I don’t know. Spells or something. Perhaps a potion.”

Her grin is wide when she says, “What do you think is in the vial?”

When he gives the vial an apprehensive look she laughs. “It’ll just clear the fever, I promise. I’m sorry for the lack of excitement, but your sister doesn’t need much by way of magic. She’ll be fine if you follow my instructions.”

He nods, grateful. The worry that had tightened his throat when he first saw Octavia sick seems to loosen, and he manages a guilty, “I can’t pay you, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she assures him, “I kind of assumed when you came to me instead of the town doctor. That’s not why I helped.”

“Still,” he shakes his head. “I should give you something. I want to.”

He means it. The sight of Octavia looking better already has lifted the weight that had been pressing down on him. He wants to do something for this strange woman who has helped them.

Clarke purses her lips, regarding him thoughtfully. “You said you made the stitches on her hand. Do you repair clothes as well?”

He grins.

*

They work out a deal, and he begins to fix her garments. It turns out it’s been quite a while since Clarke had received any new clothes and she’d been attempting to repair old items herself. It wasn’t that she had done a terrible job, but his stitch work is far better and they both knew it. He makes the short journey back and forth once a week, returning a patched dress and picking up one in need of attention.

It doesn’t go unnoticed that he now makes frequent trips into the woods, and whispers start to follow him wherever he goes. The next time he visits the tavern, Jasper and his friend Monty are on him in an instant, bombarding him with questions.

“Did you really see the witch?”

“What did she look like?”

“What did she _do_?”

“Did you have to pay a terrible price for her help?”

“She’s just a girl,” he shrugs, accepting the ale they slide his way. It’s not entirely accurate; Clarke is a witch. Though he never stays long when he goes to the cottage, he’s observed her casting enchantments that cause items to fly from her shelves into her hands, stirring potions over the fire that turn the chimney smoke purple, and talking to her cat in a manner that suggests she understands the sounds the animal makes in return. She’s certainly a witch, just not quite what he expected a witch to be. “She didn’t make me pay anything, just asked for help mending her clothes.”

The two young men exchange incredulous looks. They ask a few more questions, clearly hoping for a more exciting story, but Bellamy disappoints them with the rather uneventful details of his visits and eventually they move on to other topics.

Word of Bellamy’s arrangement with Clarke seems to spread, and those among the town who can’t afford the coin it would cost to see the doctor start to cautiously gravitate towards the woods for help. It starts with Jasper, who hits his head after a rowdy night at the tavern and tears a large gash on his forehead. Bellamy and Monty drag him to the cottage, where a surprised Clarke ushers them inside and tends to the wound on his head. Both are a little reserved at first, but quickly warm to Clarke. Jasper even cracks a few jokes, making her laugh and then admonish him for making her break focus in the middle of casting. Monty, having noticed the extensive collection of herbs and plants Clarke has strewn about the cottage, strikes up an enthusiastic conversation about them. By the end of the encounter, Jasper promises to return with some homemade moonshine for her to try and Monty makes arrangements to help her plant some of her herbs in larger supply in exchange for access to some of her rarer greenery. Bellamy half expects her to annoyed at the intrusion, but Clarke seems delighted both by their company and their promises to return. It makes him wonder if she's been terribly lonely, here in the woods on her own. The thought makes him ache for her, and he pauses in the middle of following the other two.

Clarke notices his hesitation and raises an eyebrow, “Are you forgetting something?”

He leans against the door frame, crossing his arms over his chest. “No, I was just wondering...where do you get your food from, if you never go to town?”

That didn’t seem to be what she was expecting, and she frowns a little. “My garden, mostly. Why?”

“So you’ve never had Monty’s tomatoes? Or any of the bread from the baker?” She shakes her head, and he nods to himself, closing the door on his way out.

When he shows up the next day with a mended dress and a basket filled with a couple tomatoes and a warm loaf of bread, Clarke looks delighted and thanks him. He grunts in response, a little embarrassed at her gratitude. It’s just bread for god’s sake. Everyone should get to enjoy fresh bread once in a while. Nonetheless, he accepts her offer to join her and sits at her table, accepting the plate buttered bread she slides his way.

He picks up the teacup she set in front of it and squints down at its contents. “What is it?”

“It’ll turn you into a goat,” she deadpans, sipping her own. “How’s Octavia?”

“She’s good. She’s making a lot of friends in town. I can hardly keep up with what she’s doing these days.”

“She’s got a wild spirit,” Clarke smiles fondly. “It’s a good thing. She’s strong.”

“That’s one way to describe her,” he drawls, but the affection in his voice is plain. They talk until the plates are empty, and when he makes to leave, she calls his name.

“Bellamy?” she hesitates. “Do you think you could bring more in a few days? You don’t have to, of course, but -”

“Make a list,” he says with a small smile, and she ducks her head in appreciation.

*

Murphy, the town baker, eventually becomes curious enough to demand that Bellamy take him to see the witch he’s always buying bread for. Bellamy initially tells him no, but Murphy is a persistent pain in the ass, and eventually he gives in and allows Murphy to follow him on one of his visits.

When Clarke answers the door, Murphy rolls his eyes and says, “ _This_ is the witch? You hardly look like you’re capable of powerful witchcraft.”

Bellamy is about to tell him to fuck off when Clarke quirks a brow and says, “ _You_ hardly look capable of tying your shoes, let alone baking a delicious loaf of bread.”

There’s a beat of silence before Murphy smirks. “You really think it’s delicious?”

They spend most of the visit trading barbs, but Bellamy gets the feeling there’s some sort of mutual appreciation there. That feeling is confirmed when he goes to the market next and Murphy hands him an extra loaf of bread and mutters, “That one’s for Clarke.”

Another day while he's at the market picking out produce for Clarke, Raven, the town's blacksmith, approaches him and quietly inquires about the witch in the woods. He doesn't know her well at all, just that she's blunt, a little surly, and she's damn good at what she does. He's cautious at first, unsure of her motives, but eventually Raven admits that she is in constant pain from a leg injury several years back and she's hoping Clarke might be able to help. Clarke doesn't seem dismayed when he turns up with yet another guest, instead welcoming them both inside and taking a look at the blacksmith's leg.

"I can't take away your pain completely," she tells her apologetically, "but I can lessen it for you, if you want."

He can tell Raven's still a little unsure about the magic aspect, but she takes a deep breath and nods, steeling herself. The words Clarke says are too quiet for him to hear, and there are no sparks or smoke or signs that anything is happening but he knows the moment it works because Raven's entire body seems to relax at once. Raven looks stunned for a moment before she looks at Clarke and smiles so brightly that Clarke can’t help but return it. He didn't even know Raven was capable of smiling. After it's done, the two women strike up a conversation, and he eventually bids them goodnight, sensing he isn’t going to get a word in edgewise.

“You’re going?” Clarke asks, looking startled.

“Yeah, I should be going. I told Octavia I’d be home for dinner.”

“Oh, okay. Well, I’ll see you soon?”

There’s a hopeful note in her voice, and he nods, smiling reassuringly. “Of course.”

Selfishly, he feels a little disappointed that he isn’t going to get the opportunity to spend time alone with her like he usually does, but that feeling is quickly doused when he glances back to see her deep in conversation with Raven. She’s laughing, sitting cross-legged in her chair, and she paints a much less lonely picture than she does when he usually leaves. That alone makes it easier to go.

Not everyone visiting her cottage is there for medical purposes, but there are enough that one day he arrives at her cottage with an armful of cloth cut carefully into strips of various lengths. Clarke answers the door and her eyes dart between him and the cloth in surprise.

“What is this?” she asks, taking a piece and running her fingers along it.

“I thought you could use these,” he says gruffly, feeling a little foolish now that he’s actually in front of her. “You know, for bandages.”

Realization dawns on her face and her answering smile is brilliant. Taking the cloth she asks excitedly, “Could you make more?”

He practically beams in response.

*

His sister begins to tease him about his frequent visits to see Clarke.

“You bring her _gifts_ , Bell,” she laughs.

“I bring her stuff she needs,” he shrugs.

Octavia snorts. “You’re basically courting her, you realize that right?”

He rolls his eyes at that, choosing not to dignify it with a response. He understands why she might see it that way, but he’s pretty sure it’s nothing more than a burgeoning friendship. He mends her clothes, brings her supplies, delivers fresh bread and produce from town, and keeps her company (he knows she doesn’t get many visitors outside of people looking for medical help, save for the occasional visit from Raven, Monty, and Jasper). He never shows up empty handed, always bringing something or other so he has an excuse to visit. In return she makes him tea, gives him ointments to soothe the callouses and cuts that come from his line of work, and makes him laugh in a way he rarely has since he became his sister’s sole guardian. They’re friends.

Okay, and sure, there are times when he looks at Clarke and can’t help but wish there was something more than that. He doesn’t know if the sentiment is returned, though, and so he says nothing. He’s happy enough to have her in his life at all; he doesn’t need to push for more.

One evening when his sister is having dinner with a friend and her family, he finds himself wandering the path to her cottage and knocking as he’s done many times before.

“Bellamy!” Clarke opens the door with a smile, eyes automatically going to his hands to see what he’s brought. “Oh! Nothing for me this time?”

She doesn’t sound disappointed, merely curious. He frowns. He completely forgot. “Oh right. I guess I just wanted to see you.”

He can’t quite place her expression until she pulls him in by the collar, pressing her lips to his.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

He freezes only for a moment, his hands moving to cup her jaw, angling her head to deepen the kiss as he kicks the door shut behind them. Clarke's kisses are much like the girl herself; a little wild, unyielding, and all consuming. Bellamy shivers, and a part of him wonders if it's because of some sort of magic in the air or that's just his reaction to her.

It has to be her. Clarke is utterly bewitching, even without magic.

Clarke pushes his coat off his shoulders, followed by his shirt, and he backs her into the table, one hand bunching in the fabric of her dress. He hears the unmistakable sound of fabric ripping and Clarke makes an indignant noise.

“I’ll mend it,” he promises, his voice muffled against the column of her neck.

She tugs him closer, laughing, and warmth blooms in his chest.

*

People in town talk about Clarke sometimes. She’s a town curiosity, and he knows it doesn’t bother her so he doesn’t let it bother him either. They don’t really know her, not like he does. She treats people with magic and gentle yet steady hands and best of all does not expect gold or goods in return. Many people have come to love her, but most still remain wary of the witch in the woods. He doesn't think it's an issue, so long as those people keep their distance. 

He should have known that the peace wouldn't last.

Octavia bursts through the front door one evening, panic on her face.

“It’s Clarke,” she pants. “Someone accused her of witchcraft.”

He's on his feet and following her out the door before he can even fully process what she's said. He's heard of the witch trials. He _knows_ what they do to suspected witches. Octavia takes him to the town square, and he’s horrified to see Clarke standing in the center of the crowd on a raised platform, her hands bound. A tall man with a smug expression is standing close by with the governor at his side.

“Who is that?” Bellamy growls, rage building in his chest.

“Russell Lightbourne,” Octavia says darkly. “He works for the church.”

Raven pushes her way through the crowd to where they stand, her mouth set in a hard line. “They just brought her here. They had soldiers parade her through town so they could make a big spectacle.”

Bellamy didn’t think it was possible to be any angrier, but his fists clench at her words. He’s about to push his way through the crowd to where Clarke is when Russell Lightbourne speaks.

“My dear people of Arkadia,” he says, his voice ringing through the square, “thank you for joining us here. We are here today, for a sombre occasion. It is our duty to pass judgement on one of your own, who has committed crimes against God. This trial -”

"What are the charges against me?" Clarke cuts across. Her voice is steady, not a hint of the fear he knows she must be feeling. If his heart wasn't in the process of trying to beat its way out if his chest it would have swelled with pride.

Russell looks deeply irritated at her interruption. "Clarke Griffin, you have been accused of witchcraft by your fellow man. You stand accused of cavorting with the devil, of bewitching your neighbors with spells -”

“Healing them, you mean,” she says with narrowed eyes. Some of the townspeople shift uncomfortably, murmurs rippling through the crowd.

“That’s enough!” Russell snaps loudly. He turns his back to Clarke, addressing the crowd. “My good people, evil has invaded your town. Your homes. The witch has tried to make you believe that magic can be good, but this is a lie. Magic can only come from the devil, and therefore can only be evil.”

“What evidence do you have?” Bellamy shouts. He shoulders his way through the crowd to the front, feeling Octavia and Raven at his back. Clarke’s head turns, her gaze falling on him. She sucks in a breath at the sight of him, an emotion he can’t quite identify swimming in her eyes. Russell looks furious. “You’re accusing her but what evidence is there that she’s done anything?”

“We have informants who tell us that there is a witch in this town -”

“But do you have any evidence that it’s Clarke?” Octavia demands, her lip curling in a sneer.

The governor looks between them and Russell, offering nervously, “She lives alone at the edge of town, a strange girl -”

“So no _real_ evidence,” Bellamy says tightly. Another murmur ripples through the crowd.

“Enough!” Russell snaps. “We know there is a witch in this town, and it must be stopped. Clarke Griffin is the only one who fits.”

An idea forms in his mind, and before he can overthink it he blurts, “You’re wrong. It’s me, I’m the witch.”

He can hear gasps all around him, but his eyes are focused on Russell. He can see Clarke shaking her head in his peripheral, saying sharply, “Bellamy, _no_ -”

Russell’s gaze is hard. “You’re confessing to practicing witchcraft?”

Bellamy nods, his jaw set. “Clarke is innocent. I’m the witch you’re looking for.”

“Who are you?” Russell demands, narrowing his eyes.

“He’s no one,” the governor is quick to say, frowning at Bellamy. “He’s the town tailor. He’s her lover, from what I’ve heard. She’s probably bewitched him to confess on her behalf.”

“I’m not bewitched,” he snaps. “You wanted a witch, you’ve got one. It’s me.”

Russell looks to the two soldiers he has brought with him. “Arrest him.”

“He’s lying,” Octavia says loudly, coming to stand beside him. “It’s actually me. I’m the witch.”

The soldiers pause in their advance, looking to Russell for direction. The man gapes a little at Octavia.

“They’re both wrong,” Raven calls out, appearing on his other side. “I’m the real witch.”

The governor splutters, “What is the meaning of this?”

“I’m the witch!” Jasper hollers from the other side of the square. Monty appears beside him, cupping his hands around his mouth to shout, “Me too, I’m the witch!”

“Hell, I’m the witch!” Murphy yells.

“It’s me!”

“I’m the real witch!”

Soon the entire crowd is in an uproar, people shouting to confess their own status as witches while Russell and the governor watch in shock and confusion. Clarke stands marveling at the crowd, looking dazed and touched at the display. When the shouting dies down enough, Bellamy levels a cold look at Russell and the governor. “You heard them. Either we’re all witches, or no one is.” He steps closer to look Russell in the eye. “Are you going to burn everyone in this town? Or are you going to let her go?”

The dark look on his face makes Bellamy think that Russell would in fact be alright with burning the entire town, but he clearly knows he’s outnumbered and faced with a potential mob. He swallows once before angrily ordering, “Cut her free. We’re leaving.”

One of the soldiers nervously cuts the rope binding her wrists and backs away quickly at Clarke's hard stare. Russell sweeps out of the square with his soldiers in tow and the governor trailing closely behind, apologizing profusely. Clarke steps off the platform and he pulls her into his arms immediately.

“I can’t believe you did that,” she says into his shoulder, her fingers clutching tightly at his coat.

He lets out a long breath, burying his fingers in her hair and reveling in the fact that she’s safe. He’s not sure he can manage words right now, so he settles for pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.

“I can’t believe all of you did that,” she adds, pulling back as the others draw near. “Thank you.”

“Of course we did,” Octavia tells her, squeezing her hand. “We’d never let them take you.”

“Besides, if anyone here is a heathen, it’s Murphy for sure,” Raven adds.

“Hey!” Murphy says with mock indignation. When everyone gives him a look he shrugs, “Yeah I guess that’s fair.”

Clarke laughs, and Bellamy can’t resist pulling her close again, burying his nose in her hair.

Their friends take Clarke to the tavern, intent on buying her a round or two to celebrate her freedom. Bellamy’s only a little annoyed he can’t take her home right away, but he understands their friends’ desire to see her safe and happy after today. After the fourth round, Clarke pushes back her chair and pulls him to his feet, announcing their departure. The others wave them off with wolf whistles and jeers, Octavia dryly remarking that she’ll see him in the morning.

They don’t even make it to her front door.

It’s amazing that what started out as one of the worst days of his life can end like this, with the woman he loves in his arms, her hands in his hair holding him close as they move together under the moon. Afterwards, they lay half naked in her garden, his arm pressing her closely into his side as they stare up at the starry sky. Clarke traces patterns onto his chest, and he thinks they might be the constellations he’d taught her on his many visits.

"In the interest of all the confessions taking place today, I have one of my own," he says, his fingers lightly combing through her hair.

"Mm?" she hums contentedly, and he takes it as an encouragement to continue.

"When I saw you in the square today, tied up and surrounded like that...it was the most scared I've ever been in my entire life."

Clarke props her head up on her hand, looking down at him with a soft expression. "It's okay to be scared, Bellamy. I was too. Being afraid doesn't warrant a confession."

"That's not what I'm confessing." He shakes his head. He reaches up to cup her face, his thumb tracing lightly over her cheekbone. "I was terrified, because in that moment I realized I couldn't lose you. It would have killed me. I can’t lose you, Clarke. I love you.”

Her lips part in surprise before curving into a smile that makes his breath hitch. “I love you too.”

She kisses him, soft and sweet, and he thinks that he’s never been happier, laying in the dirt with the woman he loves safe in his arms. She settles back into his side, resuming drawing patterns onto his skin. He closes his eyes, feeling close to drifting off.

“I have a confession too,” she says eventually.

He opens his eyes and turns his head, eyebrows raised. “Yeah? What is it?”

“I never needed you to mend my clothes,” she admits. “I just wanted an excuse to see you again.”

He gapes at her. “You didn’t need my help?”

“Bellamy!” she laughs. “I have magic. I could fix my clothes with a flick of my wrist.”

“You truly are evil,” he sighs, laughing when she smacks his shoulder. When their laughter dies down, she falls asleep in his arms and he follows close behind.

Since moving to Arkadia, Bellamy has come to know three things for certain: magic is real, Fridays are the best day to grab a drink at the tavern with all of their friends, and someday soon he's going to marry the witch who lives in the woods.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm tired, so I apologize for any typos or mistakes I might have missed! Comments and kudos are always appreciated :)
> 
> You can find me on tumblr under my URL - witandcoffee22x


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